


Step Up, Do More

by BananaStickers



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: (Except PL Secretly Loves It), Butt Plugs, Chastity Device, Clothing Gags, Humiliation, Light Bondage, M/M, Unsafe Sex, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 09:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21134642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: Pierre-Luc Dubois normally hates losing.  He loses the hockey game, 7-2 against Pittsburgh, and that sucks.  He loses his fight against Crosby, and thatreallysucks.He loses his dignity on the Pens' locker room floor, and...Maybe that doesn't suck as much as he thought it would.





	Step Up, Do More

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, Blue Jackets / Penguins hate sex? Must be BananaStickers. This is extremely self-indulgent, so I hope you enjoy reading as much as I liked writing it.
> 
> [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDtnBWdLGOI) is the Sid / PL fight.
> 
> (WIPs back next week, had to get this out of my brain!)

There’s a weird, agitated vibe in the room after the loss, and PL hates it.

It’s not like the Jackets haven’t been blown out before. There were a few games last season, 8-3 against Tampa, 9-6 against Calgary, awful losses that saw him sulking in the locker room just like he’s doing right now, fresh from the 7-2 whooping the Pens put on them. But in all those bad losses, there was a sense that it was only a temporary set back, that next game would be different, better. They had Bob and Bread and then Duchy and it just seemed inconceivable that those kinds of defeats would be the norm.

But now…

Maybe the vibe in the room is _dread,_ he realizes. Dread from the veterans, from Fliggy and Cam and Boone, guys that lived the terrible seasons here in Columbus, that maybe this is what the whole year will be like. Bob and Bread and Duchy are gone and maybe this is their new rediscovered identity, back to the basement.

But PL wasn’t with the team back then. He’s the #1 center now, and the idea of letting this team crash and burn sits sour in his stomach. He has to step up. He has to do more.

In the corner of the room, a circle is forming around Elvis, whose eyes are cast downward, looking despondent. Nick is right there in the middle, pulling Elvis onto his lap, whispering encouragement into his ear. Seth is already kneeling between Elvis’ legs, and PL knows that they’ll be moving back to the hotel soon, fitting as many guys as they can on one of the beds, petting and hugging and cuddling Elvis until he feels better.

PL should be there too, but he’s in no mood for comforting anyone. The entire game sucked, but especially that fight with Crosby; he keeps replaying it in his mind, letting Crosby manhandle him to the ice. He didn’t even get a single punch to connect, not a single fucking one, and he gets more and more irritated the longer he thinks of it. Even worse is what Crosby snarled at him: “Stay down,” he’d growled. “Stay down there, _where you belong.”_

Fuck that. PL doesn’t stay down, and he sure as fuck doesn’t belong anywhere except on his feet, scoring against this team and every other one in this league. The Jackets are a laughing stock right now, he realizes, and that just won’t do.

_Step up. Do more._

Nobody notices him walking out the door, not with damn near the whole team crowded around Elvis, getting him undressed from his goalie gear while Cam kisses him. Good; they’ve got Elvis taken care of. PL has something else he’s got to do.

He lets his anger carry him down the hallway, everything around him a haze, focused inward on the self-righteous quest he’s put himself on when a hand snags his shoulder, forcing him to stop. “Luc?”

No matter how many times PL has told Jack Johnson he prefers _PL_ or _Duber_ over Luc, the guy never fucking listened. Now he’s standing in front of PL, a concerned frown on his face. “JJ. Hi. Nice to see you. ‘Scuse me,” PL says, trying to muscle his way around, but Jack holds him firm.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going? Locker room’s that way.”

“The _Pens’_ locker room is this way.”

“And why do you want to go there? Luc, c’mon man.” Something about his expression must give him away, because Jack shakes his head. “This is a dumb idea, and you know it.”

“PL.”

Jack’s confusion would be comical if PL weren’t so pissed. “What?”

“It’s PL! Stop calling me _Luc,”_ PL hisses, dropping his shoulder and elbowing Jack off him. Jack stumbles back, surprised and then annoyed. He holds up his hands, edging backwards.

“Your funeral,” he says, stepping sideways to get out of PL’s way. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he calls after, and it’s all PL can do not to flip the guy off as he stalks away. He’s not surprised that JJ’s a Penguin now. PL never did like him much, and this whole team is full of assholes, so he fits right in.

The Jackets are not the kind of team that sticks around the locker room after games. Once media is done and everyone is showered, the team heads back to the hotel together. If they’re at home, they crash at someone’s house if a player is needing some extra attention and love. With seemingly half the team living within walking distance of the arena, it just doesn’t make sense to stay in the uncomfortable, smelly environment of the locker room when you can have a real bed. So PL isn’t expecting too many Pens players still in the room; in fact, he just hopes he didn’t miss Crosby.

Apparently, the Penguins like to hang around.

He gets the first notion that’s true right inside the little hallway leading to the Pens’ locker room. Throwing open the door emblazoned large with the skating penguin, it takes a moment for him to realize what’s in front of him: Matt Murray, their scrawny, odd-looking goalie is on his feet, leaning against the wall, clad only in grey sweats. And on his knees in front of Murray…

Gudbranson, that’s his name. Handsome and dumb as a brick, PL pegged that early on. Neither of them are naked, there’s no blowjob happening, but PL gets the sense he’s walked in on something. Both men gawk at PL for a moment, and Erik starts to get to his feet, but Matt cinches a hand in his hair and barks, “Stay on your knees,” and Erik’s back down immediately, flashing an apologetic look up towards the goalie.

“Sorry, Muzz. Just - “

“I got it. Stay. Be a good boy,” Murray says, petting Gudbranson’s hair, and PL blinks dumbly at the sight. Murray turns his attention to PL, raising an eyebrow. “Was there something you needed?”

“Uh - “ His anger falters for a moment over the confusion; this is different from anything the Jackets do. Murray has a grip on Gudbranson’s hair, and Erik has his cheek resting on Murray’s thigh, but keeps an intense stare at PL. Despite the lack of any nudity, the scene before him seems inherently sexual: the Jackets tend to save that for behind closed doors, in the privacy of someone’s home, or back in the hotel. Columbus’ locker room is all soft cuddling and kisses and sometimes a shower blowjob for those really crazy nights, and PL is starting to get the sense that Pittsburgh operates very, very differently. “I just came to - uh, talk - to Crosby.” Maybe not just talk. _Maybe_ punch, but Murray doesn’t need to know that.

Murray smirks like PL has told him some secret. “He’s inside,” he says. “You’ll get what you need in there.”

PL squints at the phrase - it’s an odd choice, but maybe his English is just failing him - and he moves past the pair, trying to give them as much space as he can. “Weird,” he mutters in French, and prays the rest of the locker room isn’t the same way.

Luckily, the room is mostly deserted. It’s set up differently than the Jackets’ home locker: in Columbus, it’s a big square, all red brick and blue accents. Here the room is a massive circle, brightly lit, the carpet soft under his feet. On one side of the circle, where PL can see all the defensemen’s nameplates, Dumoulin sits at Letang’s feet, eyes closed in pleasure. Letang is bent over and mouthing at his neck, one hand in Dumoulin’s hair, the other disappeared inside Dumoulin’s shirt.

In the center of the room is Crosby. Well, PL thinks it’s probably Crosby, because his face is hidden from view. Somehow two men are crushed into his lap, Guentzel and - PL squints, trying to remember - McCann, that’s the other one. They’re all laughing, and there is something _definitely_ sexual happening.

Maybe PL should just leave - 

“Oh shit,” Dumoulin barks, and PL whips his gaze back. Both Dumoulin and Letang are staring at him now with very different expressions: Dumoulin looks startled, almost embarrassed, red running up his cheeks. Letang looks _thrilled,_ a shark grin lighting up his face, too many teeth.

“What the fuck?” Guentzel asks, on his feet, and now everyone is staring at PL. It was indeed Crosby sitting on the bench, now revealed, and he looks...rumpled. Messed up, like Guentzel and McCann were in the middle of taking him apart. Both of the younger guys look put-off at seeing PL, especially Guentzel, but Crosby just looks mildly amused.

Well, he’s in this now. No way to back out, so PL lifts himself to his full height, aware that he’s taller than most men in this room, tilting his chin up. “Crosby. I came to talk.”

“To _talk,”_ Letang says in French, laughing, and turns his attention to Dumoulin, leaning down to kiss him, switching to English. “Hey, _mon grand,_ how about we do this another time?”

Dumoulin folds himself off the floor, staring daggers at PL. “What the hell,” he grumps. “This asshole hits Jake dirty and now he comes barging in and ruins our night?”

The look on Letang’s face clearly indicates if anyone’s night is being ruined, it’s certainly not his. “I’ll owe you one, cher.”

Now Crosby stands, stretching and smiling. “Dumo, why don’t you take Guentz and Canner home with you? Make sure they’re taken care of properly for their good games? I wouldn’t trust anyone else but you to do it.”

Dumoulin’s expression softens. “Well. Okay,” he says, and grabs both McCann and Guentzel’s hands, leading them out of the locker room. “Jerk,” he hisses at PL on his way out, putting a protective arm around Guentzel, as if PL is going to hit him again or something.

“Not cool, dude,” Guentzel agrees, with McCann rolling his eyes, and then they’re gone.

PL nods at Letang, scowling at his joyful expression. He just wants to wipe it off his face. “You leave now, too. This is between me and Crosby.”

“Huh!” Letang’s eyebrows shoot up. “And he tries to order me out of my _own_ locker room! Oh no, _mon petit._ I stay right here. But I won’t interfere. You want a rematch so bad, you can have it. I assure you Sid can take care of himself.”

“Tanger,” Crosby says, tone a gentle warning, and he turns back to PL, looking _infuriatingly_ calm. “Did you really want to talk, Dubois? Or was it something else?”

PL darts a glance over to Letang, but true to his word he’s back sitting at his stall, showing no signs of jumping in. The righteous anger had dulled into nervousness, on edge from being surrounded by the enemy, but now he thinks about the fight, thinks about the game and Elvis’ despondent look and his wet, red-rimmed eyes. Thinks about his own failures, and the comforting fury is right back with him. “It’s _bullshit,”_ he says, taking a step towards Crosby, who stands his ground. “That wasn’t a fight. You challenged me, and I said yes, and then - you just hauled me down. That’s not the way it works. That’s not fair.”

Letang hoots, but stays seated. “He wants _fair_ in a hockey fight.”

“Shut up,” PL hisses in Letang’s direction, switching to French, and Letang’s smile gets just a little wider.

Crosby shrugs. “Tanger’s right, you know,” he says. “Why would I stand there and trade punches with you? How does it help my team if I break my hand? How does it help the Jackets if you break _yours?_ You should be thanking me. I might have saved your season.”

“You got lucky,” PL says.

Now Crosby laughs, and he starts taking a slow circle around PL, carefully stepping around the Pens’ logo in the center of the room. PL feels a little like he’s in one of those animal documentaries that Zach likes to watch to calm him down, the zebra being circled by the lion, the bison being sized up by the wolf. “You want a rematch?” he asks. “See how lucky it was.”

Well, this is what PL is here for, isn’t it? _Step up. Do more._ Crosby’s a small guy, and PL has easily four inches on him, maybe more. His thighs and lower half are even more impressive up close, and it’s no surprise that he has the edge on skates. But here, on land, PL is confident he can use his superior weight and height to turn the tables. Especially if he gets the jump on Sid. What did Letang say, earlier? Something about fights not being fair?

Instead of answering, he lowers his shoulder and rushes at Crosby. PL gets in one good hit, a punch where his knuckles graze off Crosby’s jaw, and Sid grunts and growls and then PL is being manhandled in a familiar way, just like he was on the ice. This time, Crosby doesn’t send him to the floor; instead they tussle and wrestle while Letang cheers, and in what seems like both an instant and a lifetime, PL finds himself shoved against the wall. Well, the closed door of the trainer’s room, in actuality; it’s hard wood, and Sid is pressed behind him, as unyielding as the surface he’s stuck against. Sid’s holding him like he weighs _nothing_, which is disconcerting when you’re 6’3 and over 200 pounds and used to being the big one.

“You’ll have to try harder than that,” Crosby says in his ear, and he says it in French. Terribly accented and not entirely grammatically correct, and for some reason the very notion that Sid is beating him and then mocking him in his own language sends him into a frenzy. He struggles, and yells, and through it all Letang laughs and Crosby stays put, lets him go as he tires himself out until he’s panting, and still stuck firmly against the wall.

“Fuck you,” he pants out, chest heaving with the exertion.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Crosby manhandles his hands behind his back and keeps him pressed there. One of Sid’s thighs is between his legs, and his groin is pressed to PL’s ass, as if PL is trapped between _two_ walls - one real, and one human - and if he thought he was beaten on the ice before, he was wrong. _This_ is defeat, in an enemy locker room, face smashed against the wall, Crosby pressed intimately close behind him. Sid is so close that PL can feel his breath on his neck. “Now, what do I do with you, huh kid?”

_“Kid,”_ PL snarls, still ineffectually squirming. “Fuck off with that.”

“I’ve been an NHL captain since you were in junior high. I bet you had my posters on your wall.”

From across the room, Letang laughs, a mean sound. “I bet he did something else with those posters.”

PL stills, the only movement from the air he’s sucking in, still out of breath. Surely Letang isn’t talking about sex right now?

It’s true, though. God, the crush he had on Crosby. It started with his hockey, of course, beautiful and dominant, but then Sid got a proper haircut and broke his jaw and came back with it reconstructed and looking _hot_. More than once PL segued from watching Penguins highlights to desperately jerking off, thinking about fucking that famous ass, or Crosby’s thighs pinning him down, just like - 

Fuck, just like they are right now.

Being barely 21 really sucks sometimes, because even though he’s not popping random boners like he did at 16 or 17, just _talking_ about sex is occasionally enough to make his pants a little uncomfortable. Of course he’s hard now, of fucking course, because why not make this night even worse? It’s just that PL can feel Sid’s groin, flush with his ass; hell, Sid’s entire body is draped over PL’s right now. He’s fantasized about this shit for years, what the hell did he expect but to be hard?

Sid scoffs at Letang’s suggestion and says, “Oh, come on,” at the exact same time an absolutely mortifying noise comes out of PL’s throat, not quite a whine, not quite a groan, some strange mix of both that makes him want to bury himself alive and suffocate to death. 

“Ha! See, I told you,” Letang says, sounding smug. “He’s getting off to this _right now_, I bet you. Take a feel, eh?”

“No,” PL chokes out, because it’s impossible that Crosby is going to miss it if he puts his hand anywhere near his dick. He’s so hard, and somehow this situation - him pinned against the wall, other people _watching_ \- is making him impossibly hotter, which is super fucked up and nothing he ever thought he’d be into. If Crosby will just let him off this wall, he’ll slink back to the hotel and lick his wounds and nobody will be the wiser. “Let me g- “

He can’t finish the sentence, because there’s a hand trailing down the front of his pants. He bucks into the touch, involuntarily seeking more, despite every fiber of his being - except his dick, apparently - screaming at him to stop. “Well, you’re right,” Crosby says. “Hell, Tanger, you always could pick ‘em out, eh?”

Letang chuckles. “The ones that get off on this shit, they just have this, I don’t know, this _look,”_ he says. “Plus he’s a Blue Jacket. They seem to collect that type.”

Crosby huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, and then he leans into PL a little more. He can feel Crosby’s mouth brushing against his neck as he talks, and it makes him shiver. “See, you’re not the only Jacket like this,” Sid explains. “Running your mouth and acting out, and everyone thinks you’re an asshole, but really you just want to be _punished._ Next time it’s easier for both of us if you just ask.”

“I think that’s part of their fun,” Letang says. “Getting beat. Then they don’t have to admit they like this shit.”

There’s a brief moment where PL wonders which of his teammates has been stuck in this same spot, crushed against a wall and Sidney Crosby, but then his brain whites out because Crosby’s hand hasn’t moved away from his dick. It continues that same slow movement, up and down along the front of his dress pants, which are straining uncomfortably now. If this keeps up, shit, he’s going to come, and PL is hard pressed to think of anything more embarrassing. “Stop,” he whines, squirming again, but all that does is serve to press his dick further into Crosby’s touch. “Stop, stop, _arrête, arrête!”_

“You’re doing this yourself,” Sid says mildly, and that can’t be true, except maybe it is - PL finds himself humping into Crosby’s hand, god, he’s so _close…_

“Stop,” he sobs, pressing his forehead to the wood grain of the door as he feels himself tip over, the warmth of Sid’s hand joined by hot stickiness as he comes, right in his boxers. Oh god, _oh god,_ he can’t believe that’s just happened. He stays there for a moment, panting, the come quickly cooling and turning everything uncomfortably slimy. Every time he shifts, it’s slick and disgusting.

Letang sighs. “To be 21 again,” he says.

“Feels gross, huh,” Sid says to him, and he sounds almost sympathetic, but there’s still an edge underneath it, like this isn’t over, that PL’s not done yet. “Why don’t we get those pants off you, then.”

“I don’t - “

“Oh that’s not a suggestion,” Letang pipes up. “So just do it. Hard way, or easy way. You choose.”

PL swallows, swallows again, mouth dry. Taking off his pants in this locker room is probably going to mean only one thing. Is Crosby going to fuck him? Or Letang? _Both?_ Press him up against the wall, have their way with him while the other watches? God. It’s terrifying. It’s humiliating.

It’s also blindingly, infuriatingly, inexplicably hot, and even though he just came, the heat in his belly flares fresh. He’s not hard again yet, but it won’t be long. He thinks about struggling some more, trying to convince them to let him go and not add to this shame, but Crosby nudges him and he nods. “Okay,” he says. “I just - I need my hands, okay, if you want me to take them off.”

A small part of him is furious at himself for giving up, for _allowing_ this, but he’s able to rationalize it pretty easily. How can he disobey? There’s Crosby and Letang, plus Murray and Gudbranson still might be in the vicinity as well. He’s outnumbered and being given a direct order, and that’s the only reason that his hands drop to his pants and fumble with his belt once he’s released. It’s _not_ because he wants to, absolutely not, that’s ridiculous. He doesn’t have a choice, he tells himself.

PL winces as his pants push past his boxers, damp and gummy. He can feel his inner thighs already getting tacky with the drying come. “You might as well just get naked,” Crosby says, his tone implying a benign suggestion, but PL knows better. He’s released from the wall, Crosby taking a healthy step back; PL isn’t sure whether to keep facing the wall as he undresses, or to turn and face the Penguins. Does he want to look Crosby in the eye while he’s doing this?

Well, he certainly doesn’t want to seem like he’s cowering against the wall, so he spins around, kicks off his shoes and pants, tries to hide the wet spot on his boxers as he does so. That’s a fruitless endeavor, and he can feel both men’s eyes on him as he unbuttons his dress shirt, hands trembling just a little bit. Enough that he can feel it; hopefully not enough to be seen.

“Mind if I join you?” A voice asks quietly, and PL jerks his head up, heart pounding. Matt Murray, obviously freshly showered with a towel snug around his waist, is smirking at the scene. That’s not what draws PL’s gaze, however; still on his knees next to Murray but naked as the day he was born is Gudbranson. Erik’s jaw is set, and he’s staring PL down as if challenging him to say something about it.

“Guddy was a good boy today, Muzz,” Crosby says. “Did he earn that orgasm yet? Come on in, have a seat. Stay and watch awhile, if you want.”

“Good boy,” Letang echoes, and Gudbranson beams.

“He was, wasn’t he,” Murray says, petting Gudbranson’s cheek like he’s some kind of dog, then starts walking to his stall. Gudbranson follows, crawling on his hands and knees, and PL feels his cheeks go hot, that heat in his stomach kicking up a notch. The terrible thing is, he used to be pretty confident that he’d prefer to be in Murray’s position; now he’s not so sure. “He got his orgasm in the shower,” Murray continues. “Because he was so good today. But the cage goes right back on now.”

“Gotta keep ‘em in line,” Crosby agrees, and PL is confused about what the hell is going on - cage? - but then he sees the metal glinting in Murray’s hand and the gasp falls out of his mouth, uncontrolled.

Fuck, that - that’s a chastity device.

“I think he likes it,” Letang leers as he PL finally shucks off the soiled boxers, naked now. He’s not fully hard, but he’s getting there again, and he spans his fingers across his groin, trying to hide it. “Muzz, maybe we should just give him to you.”

Crosby playfully flips Letang off. “Stop giving away my toys, Tanger,” he teases. “Give me some tape, would you?”

Tape? Letang throws a roll of white stick tape over, and Crosby snags it out of midair, holding it up to show PL. “Give me your hands, Dubois.”

“What?” PL jerks his hands behind his back, but that leaves his half-hard dick obvious and exposed; he goes to cover himself again and freezes, caught between hiding himself and absolutely not wanting to give his hands over. “What are you going to do?”

Crosby sighs, shoving the tape in his direction. “Really,” he deadpans, as if the answer is obvious, and PL supposes it is. But he still doesn’t see a choice here, so reluctantly, he holds out his wrists in front of him.

Behind Crosby, there’s a whine, and PL can see Murray locking Gudbranson into the chastity device, which looks like a special kind of torture. “Oh shush,” Murray says, kissing Gudbranson’s temple. “You just keep being a good boy and you’ll keep getting those orgasms. Turn around now, you know what’s next.” Now Murray is holding a plug, and - god, the size of it, the _girth - _

“Fuck,” PL whispers as Crosby starts winding the stick tape around his wrists. That’s going to sting later, the tape already sticking to the hair on his arms, and he can feel Letang’s eyes on him, Gudbranson’s too. People are watching him get tied up. People are watching him be forced to submit, and he’s getting hard from it again which is the worst part about this whole thing. He jerks back, trying in vain to get his hands free to hide the evidence of his arousal.

Crosby slaps him.

It’s not the hardest hit he’s ever taken, not by a long shot, but his cheek stings, and he stands there in stunned silence as Crosby wraps his arms until he can’t budge them an inch. “And that’s why we do this,” Crosby explains. “To help you be good. Because you came here tonight to be bad, didn’t you? Guddy, what happens to bad boys?”

Gudbranson is on his hands and knees now, face buried in his forearm. He’s panting loud enough that even PL can hear, on the other side of the room, because Murray is pushing that huge plug inside him. Slowly, by the looks of it. Murray’s hands are shiny with lube, but even so, with the sheer size of what PL saw, he has a hard time believing it doesn’t hurt. “They get...get punished,” Gudbranson gasps.

“You’re right, they do. What’s Muzz’s favorite punishment for you?”

Gudbranson whimpers, a noise that PL never expected to hear out of a man like that. Murray clicks his tongue at the sound. “I got you. Shh, good boy,” Murray soothes, picking up the lube to add more. “What’s my favorite punishment, Guddy? C’mon.”

“I - I lose mouth privileges.” His voice twists into a squeak at the end, and Murray sits back, looking proud.

“Good boy, it’s in. See, you always make such a fuss for nothing. Why don’t we show Sid what we mean by mouth privileges? It’s not a punishment right now, so I won’t be hard, I promise.”

“Okay,” Gudbranson breathes, turning around, and PL stares as Murray pulls off his towel. His cock lays half-hard in his lap, and Gudbranson is there in an instant, nuzzling and licking at it before taking it into his mouth. Erik’s ass is up and exposed to them, and PL can see the plug base, snug against his entrance, shiny with lube.

Murray gently pets his hand through Gudbranson’s hair. “Losing privileges means I decide everything that happens with his mouth,” he says. “When he gets to talk, when he gets to eat, whether he gets to suck my dick or not. Sometimes I just make him sit like this while we watch a movie. Or I fuck his mouth until he chokes. His mouth is _mine_, so I do whatever I want. See?”

Letang makes a soft, interested noise. “That second one, Sid,” he says. “Sounds like a winner to me.”

Crosby turns back to PL, eyebrow up, and PL is caught between wanting to sink into the carpet to disappear and wanting Crosby’s dick in his mouth so bad it hurts. “Looks like you lost mouth privileges, kid,” Crosby says, shrugging as if to say _what-can-ya-do?_ “Knees, now.”

PL doesn’t move.

Crosby’s expression darkens. “Knees,” he says. “Or I’ll put you there, and you won’t like it.”

PL sinks to his knees, trying desperately not to look like he wants any part of this. He lands harder than he wants to with his wrists taped in front of him, wincing.

“You want to be contrary,” Crosby says, backpedaling until he reaches his stall and sits down. “Then you get to crawl. Get over here and make it quick. And _don’t_ crawl on the logo.”

“You won’t like it if you do,” Letang sing-songs.

PL swallows thickly - no choice, he has no choice, he’s not eager to comply he just has no _choice,_ he reminds himself - and starts making his way over to Crosby. He starts by knee-walking, but that takes too much time, so he ends in an awkward three-point crawl, trying not to fall on his face due to his bound hands. By the time he gets there, Crosby is rubbing the heel of his palm between his legs, his team-issued sweatpants with an obvious bulge. “You’ve done this before?” Crosby asks, and Letang snorts.

“Sid, there’s no way that kid hasn’t sucked a thousand dicks already.”

“Tanger,” Crosby warns, and Letang falls quiet. He raises his eyebrows down at PL. “Well?”

“I have,” he says, slowly. His mouth is so dry, though.

“You ever had your mouth fucked?”

At that, PL has to shake his head, squeezing his eyes closed so he doesn’t have to see Crosby’s expression. He doesn’t want to see condescension, or pity, and god help him if he sees arousal at that fact.

“Alright then,” Crosby says. “Open your mouth. We’ll go slow at first.”

PL slowly opens his eyes, not his mouth, not quite yet. Crosby’s dick is out now, and it’s not long but it’s thick. Of course it is, just like the rest of him. PL realizes he’s going to get to suck it - no, no, he _has_ to suck it, has to - and his arousal is now painful, and mortifying. He starts to open his mouth but pauses. “Can I - can I have some water first?”

Crosby makes a thoughtful hum. “No,” he says after a moment of consideration, and then he’s dragging PL’s jaw further open and - 

Sidney Crosby’s dick is in his _mouth._

He’s apparently showered, thank god, because he doesn’t taste like hockey funk. Crosby’s dick fills his entire mouth, and he feels like he can barely breath around it. At least it kicks his saliva into production, and suddenly his mouth goes from too-dry to wet, _wet,_ the spit bubbling and foaming at the sides of his mouth while Crosby thrusts shallowly in and out.

“Be good,” Crosby warns, and then his big hands span the entire back of PL’s head and he thrusts, too deep for what PL is used to. He splutters, tries to pull off, but Crosby’s hands stay firm. He thinks he hears Letang murmuring something, but Sid’s hands are pressing on his ears and the entire world is muffled except for the wet choking noises he’s making, loud enough to drown everything else out.

Tears well up, easy and fast, and suddenly his nose is running too, and he can feel the spit coating his chin, through his beard. All he can feel is Crosby’s hands and all he can see is Crosby’s dick, and this is what he’s been reduced to, just a hole for Sid to fuck. That idea runs straight down his spine, and he’s not sure if he’s more ashamed of what’s happening or the fact that his body is betraying him and getting off on this.

PL paws with his bound hands at Crosby’s legs, trying to say ‘stop’, but just coming out as muffled whimpers. He can’t take anymore - please, no more - he’s going to puke, and that would be awful. He tries to direct his gaze up to Crosby, make him understand, but his world is blurry through the tears, Crosby just an indistinct shape in front of him, the cock in his mouth never stopping its invasion.

But then Crosby does pull out, leaving PL to bend over, retching and coughing. His throat feels raw, and he’s a mess; he bends a little further to wipe his face on the carpet. “Hey,” Crosby says, nudging PL with his foot. “Stop that. Look up, let me see your face.”

He’s mostly just managed to smear the spit and snot and saliva all over his face instead of wiping it off, so he really doesn’t want to look up, but Crosby nudges him again - harder this time - so he does. “Smile,” Letang commands in French, and when PL glances over, he’s got his phone out.

“Hey,” PL cries, blinking away tears. “You can’t - “

Letang rolls his eyes, waving at him. “Just for Jake,” he says. “Then I delete it, don’t you worry, _mon petit.”_

“No - no way, fuck that, you can’t - “

“I already did,” Letang interrupts, at the same time Crosby lifts his chin and nods across the room.

“Muzz,” he asks, “Mind if we borrow Guddy for a bit?”

“Absolutely,” Murray says, and PL peers around to see Gudbranson still mouthing at Murray’s dick, but pulling away and turning an obedient eye towards Crosby. “He’s all yours.”

Crosby smiles. “Guddy, could you go and grab Dubois’ boxers for me? You can walk, if you want.”

Gudbranson glances behind him at Murray, almost as if looking for a confirmation, and Murray smiles and pets his hair. That’s apparently all he needs to lumber to his feet and head over towards PL’s discarded clothes. PL’s protests fall quiet as he takes in just how tall Gudbranson is. He’s _huge,_ and he’s broad, and even with the chastity cage jangling between his legs it doesn’t make him look any less intimidating. PL is suddenly well aware he’s not the biggest in the room, not by a long shot.

“I’m - sorry,” he says, the words tasting a little ashy in his mouth. “I’ll be good. Just, whatever you’re doing. Don’t.”

“Don’t be such a little bitch next time,” Letang says as Gudbranson snags PL’s boxers off the floor. The wet spot is obvious even from where PL is sitting, and Gudbranson comes over and respectfully presents them to Crosby. Up close he’s even bigger, and PL tries his best not to cringe away, well aware that he could be getting his ass kicked right now.

“Good boy, Guddy,” Crosby says. “Now that I think about it, why don’t you get the lube for us, too?”

Murray gently clears his throat. “If I can make a suggestion,” he says. “You can just use his mouth.”

PL’s eyes go wide, and he sneaks another glance at Gudbranson, up and up and up where he’s standing. Erik is staring down at him, eyes cold, but he practically melts when he looks over at Murray. “And I _have_ to do a good job, sir?” he asks.

“Yes you have to do a good job,” Murray snaps, and Gudbranson’s eyes go down, chastised.

Crosby nods. “I like it,” he says, and gestures back to the floor. PL can _feel_ the floor tremble a little as Gudbranson goes back to his knees, and then there’s a huge, warm hand on his ass.

“Wait - wait - “ he squeaks, because - it’s not his first time bottoming, but nobody’s ever used their mouth _there,_ but then there’s warm wet heat like he’s never felt before. He squirms a little, but then Crosby grabs his jaw in a warning.

“Don’t make me slap you again,” he says. “You’re going to open your mouth so I can shove this inside, and then you’re going to stay nice and still for Guddy while he gets you ready. Unless you especially enjoy pain.”

“Maybe he does, he came back here to get beat a second time,” Letang says.

Crosby’s mouth twists in amusement. “Maybe,” he says, then turns back to PL. “The moment you start being bad, Guddy is going to stop, and then I’m going to fuck you whether you’re ready or not. So just think about that. Now open the fuck up.”

PL finds himself horrified to feel his jaw dropping open at the order, no fight, no fuss, like his brain is used to submitting now, like it...like it _enjoys_ it. But he doesn’t enjoy the boxers in his mouth when Crosby shoves them in. He can taste his own come, cold and drying, and the fabric is irritating on his tongue, but he doesn’t even think about spitting it out. There will be consequences if he does.

Letang scoots over to the bench next to Sid with an indulgent smile. “Cher,” he murmurs sweetly, leaning over to kiss Crosby. Sid cups Letang’s jaw, almost tender, and PL’s brain goes a little shocky as he processes the entirety of the situation.

Matt Murray, watching. Erik Gudbranson, apparently nearly as low on the totem pole as PL except _loving it_, eating his ass out. Kris Letang, stealing long, slow kisses from Crosby. Sid himself, one fist in Letang’s shirt, the other stroking his own cock.

The cock that’s been in PL’s mouth, he has to remind himself. Because then there’s him, on the floor, hands bound in front, dirty boxers stuffed into his mouth, staring as his captors make out with each other like he doesn’t even exist, like he’s not even important enough to watch. It’s terrifying, and humiliating, and his arousal sits like a heavy stone in his stomach, one made from lava, all heat and searing pain. He squeals as Gudbranson’s tongue finds its way inside, lets his chest drop to the floor - gotta be good, have to be _good_ \- and tries not to squirm or fidget.

“Guddy, tell us when you think he’s ready,” Crosby says, and PL spares a glance upwards in Crosby’s direction. Letang is mouthing kisses on Crosby’s jaw now; Sid has a warm smile on his face, looking like he’s enjoying every moment. “Tanger, you want to fuck him too? Or maybe his mouth?”

They’re talking about him like he’s not right here, _right here_ on the floor in front of them, and that sends a shiver through him. “Rather come home with you later,” Letang says, and Crosby grins.

“That can be arranged,” he says, and fuck it all, PL isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed.

For the next few minutes his world is nothing but hot tongue, slick fingers, and nasty cotton in his mouth. The stretch isn’t as uncomfortable as he would have thought without lube; Gudbranson might not like him, but he’s enthusiastic when given an order, and PL feels like he’s dripping. “Guddy looks so hot like this, Muzz,” Crosby says. “He’s definitely doing a good job.”

“Yeah, I should make him eat me out more often,” Murray laughs. “Guddy, how’s it going there?”

Guddy pulls away, but he’s still close enough that PL can feel his breath. “Think he’s ready.”

Murray hums. “Let Sid check your work, and if you did well, you can come over here and take that plug out and ride me.”

Crosby pats his cheek. “Turn around and let me check you,” he orders, and with a few awkward hops PL does as requested. He’s facing Murray now, who is sprawled in his stall, looking casual as he palms his hard cock, like it’s not unusual to have an opponent here in the room, bound and under Crosby’s hand. Maybe it’s not.

“Hmm,” Crosby says, and PL can hear him spit, and then two wet fingers slide right in. Gudbranson must have done a good job; there’s no resistance, no pain. PL’s body accepts them as if they were made for him. That thought, more so than the intrusion of digits, makes him whine.

“Look at him just open up for you, Sid,” Letang says. “I like how he’s still pretending that he doesn’t want this.”

“Good job, Guddy,” Sid praises, and Gudbranson crawls back over to Murray, looking pleased. A crook of Crosby’s fingers brings a jab to his prostate, and PL shrieks through the gag, mouth watering uncontrollably, fresh tears in his eyes. “Oh, I like that,” Sid says, doing it again. “I like the ones that make noise. Dubois, spit that out. Let me hear you.”

PL spits the boxers out gratefully, and they land in a wet splat, soaked from his saliva. Before he can process, Crosby’s pressing against his prostate again, and he doesn’t recognize the noise that bursts from his mouth, something loud and desperate and high-pitched. His cock lays hot and heavy between his legs, practically painful with how hard he is. He’s never come from just prostate stimulation alone, but maybe..._maybe…_

The fingers withdraw, and Letang laughs when his next noise is tinged with obvious disappointment. At this point, he barely has the energy to be embarrassed about it, especially when every nerve of his body catches on fire at the blunt pressure against his hole, the knowledge of what’s coming next. “God,” he breathes, but he’s not sure what he’s praying for.

“If that’s what you want to call me,” Sid says, and then his entire body lights up as Crosby pushes inside.

PL has never particularly enjoyed bottoming. The stretch, the weird feeling of fullness, the mess to clean up, and there’s always been a certain element of discomfort at allowing another man to take him in the most intimate way, like he can’t fully relax during it. Here, he’s done fighting, has mentally and physically tired himself out. There’s no more resisting; he doesn’t have the energy for it. The barriers are broken down, and maybe it’s just survival instinct that is telling him that he’s enjoying this, because the alternative - that he _wants_ to submit, to be beaten, humiliated, made to obey - that’s too terrible to think of, and nothing he has the strength to examine in-depth right now. So he just kneels there, on his hands and knees, and his brain lets go, and the pleasure flows hot through PL’s body at each thrust.

Crosby changes his angle so he’s just barely grazing PL’s prostate, and he knows what he’s doing because he chuckles meanly as PL gasps out every curse, every religious sacrament he knows. “The mouth on this kid,” Letang laughs. “What are you doing to him?”

PL hisses as Crosby grabs a handful of his hair and yanks, bringing his gaze up to the other side of the room. Gudbranson is riding Murray in Matt’s stall, bouncing up and down, hands braced on the sides of the locker for more support. He’s still caged, unable to get hard, and Murray’s long fingers are playing with his balls. Gudbranson looks tortured at the touch, but he never stops, legs quivering with the effort. “I should have let Jake stay,” Crosby hisses in his ear. “Let him fuck you too for that shit you pulled tonight. Hell, maybe we could have fucked you together. You love this, don’t you? You’re such a little fuck toy you’d want to take us both together, two dicks in your sloppy hole. Huh? Say it,” Crosby demands, grip tightening in his hair, and the pain shoots down his shoulders. It’s not a bad pain, though; it keeps going right to his cock, as if he _likes_ it, although that’s too distressing to think about. “Say it. Say, ‘I’m a little fuck toy.’”

“I’m a - “ The words catch in his throat, rising panic because what if that’s the truth, what if he, what if he _loves this?_ Saying it out loud would make it real in a way it’s currently not, and he can’t get the words to go, coughing on them.

“Say it!” Crosby snarls, wrenching his head and bowing his back at the same time that he nearly pulls out, slamming back in with force to thrust deep, so deep it feels like Crosby is invading every part of him, thighs pressed to his ass, dick buried inside, breathing on his neck, hand on his hair.

“Fuck toy,” he howls. “I’m - I’m - _fuck!”_

“Close enough I guess,” Letang says, but PL barely hears him, barely hears Gudbranson groaning and pleading across the room. His entire world is Crosby, the hot drag of his dick, the hand on his hair, the body surrounding him. He’s barely cognizant that he’s begging with each thrust, like Sid is fucking the word out of him, _please please please_, all he wants to do is touch his dick but he can’t, not with his hands bound, not unless he wants to fall over on his face. It doesn’t sound like the worst option in the world right now, honestly.

There’s a scrape of teeth on his neck, right where his shoulder dips, and then Crosby’s biting him. It’s hurts, god does it hurt, and he shrieks, can feel Crosby groan as his hips stutter and he’s coming. Realistically he knows he can’t feel Crosby coming inside him, but it’s easy to imagine he can, filling him up, shooting hot and deep inside him.

Sid finally pulls his mouth away, and the bite stings and throbs, but it’s overshadowed by the burn in his belly. PL needs to get off, needs it _now_, it feels like he’s been close for hours. He tries not to fidget, waiting for the hand on his dick to finish him off.

But then Crosby is pulling out, and there’s no hand. He’s urging PL onto his knees, slicing carefully through the white tape on his wrists, and no hand. “I need to - please, I want - “ PL whispers, and everything _aches_ with the need to come.

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around here, isn’t there,” Crosby says, glancing back where Gudbranson is red-faced and panting, feet planted on the ground while Murray fucks up into him. “Not my problem, kid. You already got off once, don’t be greedy. Save it for next time.”

“Next time…?” PL asks. There’s a lump in his throat at this new information, that Crosby isn’t going to get him off, and he sits there, stunned and wound up and overstimulated until Sid dumps his clothes in front of him.

“You’ll be back,” Letang says confidently. “They always come back.”

Crosby indicates his clothes. “Get dressed and get out.” PL starts reaching for his pants, not intending to wear the ruined boxers, but Crosby steps on them before he can grab them. “C’mon. Don’t be messy and leave your underwear. Put them back on, too.”

PL swallows around the lump still in his throat. He has to pull the boxers apart, stuck together with spit and come, and he shivers as he pulls them on. They’re disgusting, and at least his dick gets a little softer from the sensation, although the arousal thrumming through his bones never ceases for an instant. He gets dressed to the soundtrack of Murray fucking Gudbranson, and by the time he finishes buttoning his shirt, Gudbranson is on his knees, Murray finishing off on his face. PL sneaks a look at the scene; Gudbranson looks almost peaceful now, splattered with come, a smile on his face. He wishes he could be that zen about not coming, but his hands are trembling now through the frustration.

He starts to gently tear the tape off his wrists, but Crosby frowns. “Leave it,” he says. “I told you to get out, didn’t I? Oh, and say hi to Dubinsky for me. I _sure_ hope he doesn’t have to retire, what with that wrist of his.” Crosby doesn’t even try to disguise the sarcasm, or the mean smirk on his face.

Letang steps up next to Crosby with a smile. “Yeah, who would we fuck in the locker room after Jackets games if that happened? Oh, wait…” He trails his eyes over PL’s body, very deliberately, and then he and Crosby both laugh.

PL turns and flees before he does something else he might regret. “See you next time,” Murray mocks, dick still in his hand, and he crashes down the hall and towards his locker room, almost running.

The equipment staff gets a shock when he bursts back into the Jackets’ locker room, everyone else gone by now. “Sorry, sorry,” he stammers, making a beeline for the bathroom and shutting himself in a stall, throwing himself against the wall and willing his hands to stay steady as he gets his pants undone. He doesn’t even bother pushing them down, just shoves a hand in his boxers and grabs ahold of himself, nearly crying in relief as he jerks himself off. One, two, three and he’s done, coming in his boxers _again,_ but fuck it, he can’t ruin them any more than they already are.

He stays in the stall for a very long time, panting, collecting himself mentally and physically. When he finally feels like he can move, he carefully gets his pants and boxers off, redresses with no underwear, and stashes the soiled boxers deep in the garbage. Then he makes the long walk across the street to the team hotel. His roommate isn’t in - probably still in Elvis’ room, where he would be too if he had any brains - and he takes the opportunity for a long, hot shower. He can see the bite mark, starting to turn a lurid shade of purple, and all night he keeps touching it and pushing at it, letting the pain spark through him.

He doesn’t sleep very much that night, and he knows he looks like shit the next day. He manages to sneak onto the bus early, camp out in the last row and avoid prying eyes, but as the bus pulls into the airport he realizes he’s made a mistake. Being first on the bus means being last _off_ the bus, and last on the plane.

There’s still a little puppy pile around Elvis, even this morning, but PL’s hope that everyone might be too distracted to notice him is dashed instantly. “Duber,” Cam murmurs, sounding disappointed, and PL realizes he’s staring at the bite. He ducks his head and tries to move past, down the aisle, but Cam grabs his wrist. “Sit with me,” he says, so PL does.

Cam, bless him, doesn’t say anything for the first half of the plane ride, simply unbuckles his seat belt when they’re allowed to and climbs into PL’s lap, resting his head on his shoulder. It feels nice, this nonjudgmental comfort, and PL lets himself be cuddled, trying to hide his face in Cam’s neck. He doesn’t want to think about the way he felt when Crosby put him on his knees, or the strange thrill at being watched, at being _conquered._ “Cam - do you do this for Brandon? The cuddling?” PL asks as they get close to home, the question coming despite his hesitation to ask, not able to forget Crosby’s parting shot.

Cam pauses, then kisses his jaw. “Yes,” he says, quietly. “I tell him not to go, every time, but you know Dubi. This helps him. Does this help you, too?” PL nods, silent. “Am I going to have to do this for you next time, then?”

PL shakes his head, _no_, already knowing it’s a lie.

“Okay,” Cam says, not quite sounding convinced.

From the sound of things as the plane descends into Columbus, PL can hear his teammates making plans to stay with Elvis for the day. “I should go back with Elvis,” he tells Cam. “Are you going?”

Cam shakes his head. “I’m not, but you’re not going either. Someone’s picking you up.”

He won’t say any more than that, so PL just holds him until the plane lands and he grabs his luggage to disembark. Cam stays close as they head to their cars, pats his rump comfortingly as PL spots a familiar face. Brandon Dubinsky is leaning on his car, arms crossed over his chest, injured wrist wrapped tight. “Oh,” PL says, and Cam gets way up on his tip-toes to kiss his jaw, then heads off.

“Hey, PL.” Brandon’s smile is gentle, sympathetic. Understanding. It almost makes him tear up, that secret shared knowledge in his eyes. “Cam messaged me.”

“Yeah.” PL coughs, rubs at his face, incredibly aware of the hickey peeking out from his collar. “I know, okay. I know, it was dumb. I just wanted to - “ _Step up. Do more._ “I don’t know. I don’t _know.”_

“I get it,” Brandon says softly, wrapping PL up in a hug, kissing his forehead. “Trust me, I do. Now come on, bud. Let me get you home.”


End file.
